


Send me a Happy Hour

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-08
Updated: 2005-07-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley's not having a good day. Angel tries to make it better. He fails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Send me a Happy Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

SPOILERS: Set after ep. 2.17, ‘Disharmony’, but before ‘Belonging’.   
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for the Jossverse Birthday ficathon. Title and quote from traditional childhood prayer. Hugs and grateful thanks to Lonely Brit, enabler extraordinaire.

 

****

Send Me a Happy Hour

_“Four corners to my bed,_  
Four angels 'round my head,  
One to watch, one to pray,  
And two to bear my soul away.

_For he's the branch and I'm the flower,  
Pray God send me a happy hour.”_

 

“Sit still!”

Cordelia issued this directive as Wesley flinched under her ministrations. She was prodding his shoulder none too gently, trying to decide if the bite wound there necessitated stitches. 

“I am trying,” Wesley muttered through clenched teeth.

“Yes, very trying,” she retorted, hauling him closer to the lamp on his desk. She poked at the edges of the wound, then nodded decisively. “You’ll get away with paper stitches.” She nodded to Angel, who stepped forward with the First Aid kit. “Did you bring the antiseptic?”

Wesley slumped his good shoulder and dropped his head onto the palm of his hand. “It’s fine, really. Just leave it alone, let the air at it.” He was already trying to pull his shirt back over the wound. 

“Don’t be such a baby.” She slapped his hand lightly, and began to swab his shoulder with the antiseptic. Angel hissed sympathetically, as Wesley arched into the pain.

Cordelia ignored them. “I have no sympathy. You know your right side is more vulnerable since the gunshot. You should have feinted to the left.” She had finished cleaning the area and was now drawing the wound closed with three paper stitches.

“Thank you, Cordelia. Next time I’m in a life or death struggle with a demon, I’ll try to remind it not to attack on my weak side.” Wesley snapped, his shoulder jerking involuntarily as she applied the stitches.

Cordy pressed a clean dressing over the top of the stitches with depressingly consummate skill, then clicked her fingers imperiously. “Angel, painkillers?”

Angel obeyed, popping two Tylenol from the pack and setting them down in front of Wesley. "There you go, Wes.” He tried not to stare at Wesley’s shoulder, the patch of square white gauze serving only to emphasize the thin tracery of scars left by Faith’s ministrations a year ago.

Wesley was still struggling to get his arm back into his shirt sleeve. And failing miserably. Angel reached down and grasped Wesley’s hand gently, easing his fingers into the cotton softness of the worn Oxford shirt. Wesley blushed furiously, the tips of his ears turning pink with embarrassment, and Angel drew back, allowing Wesley to pull the shirt up over his wound.

“Thank you.” Wesley’s voice was low, and he moved awkwardly; there was a slight catch in his breath when the fabric skimmed the most recently damaged area. Wes leaned forward to lift the glass of water, trying to relax his shoulders when he moved, but he flinched visibly.

Cordelia gathered the first aid supplies somewhat proprietarily, and gestured to the pills. “Take them, Wes. I mean it. Or I’ll break out the Percodan.” 

Wesley grimaced. “Fat lot of good that’ll do. Never stopped the pain. Just made me not want to care about it.” They all knew how much Wesley had hated taking the pain medication prescribed after the gunshot wound. It was like being drunk, he had assured them scornfully, but without any of the fun side effects. 

There had been a big showdown the day that Cordelia had gone into the kitchen in his apartment to make a cup of tea and discovered the three unopened prescription packs. She had rounded on him; threatening to report him to the particularly terrifying English ex-pat nurse, who, according to Wesley, gave bed baths of such rigorousness that they verged on intimate physical assault.

“Oh, stop whining and take the goddamn pills, Wesley!” 

Wesley scowled deeply, already too familiar with Cordelia’s brand of tender loving care. “I do wish you wouldn’t treat me like a child.” He swallowed the pills with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Then stop behaving like one!” She hovered next to him until she was sure he had taken the medication, and managed to refrain from checking under his tongue. She lifted the first aid kit, and gave his head a condescending pat. “Good. You’ll thank me later.” She walked to the door of the office; Wesley eyeing her retreating back with silent hostility. She carried the kit back out to the reception area, neatly sidestepping Gunn, who had been putting the weapons back in the cabinet.

“All patched up?” he enquired, and produced a bottle of Laphroag from behind his back. The frown on Wesley’s face was transformed into a smile of silent gratitude.

“Brought you some painkillers, Wes.” He lifted down three tea cups from the set behind Wesley’s desk and poured a measure for each of them, handing the drinks round.

“He’s already taken them,” Cordelia called from the outer office, oblivious to the deception Gunn had perpetrated. Wesley made a grab for his whiskey, and clutched it fiercely to his chest. He eyed Angel and Gunn with desperate determination, daring them to stop him. 

Gunn stretched out in the chair opposite the desk and nursed his own drink protectively. “You sure about this, man? Nurse Ratchett finds out and she’ll kick our sorry asses as well as yours.”

Wesley narrowed his eyes. ”Coward.” He sipped at his whiskey, and couldn’t help the small appreciative smile that spread across his lips. He took another mouthful, and the smile grew wistful. “S’nice.” 

Angel peered through the office door, but Cordelia was busy in the outer office, poking at the answering machine with the end of a pen. He looked back to Wesley, who was now two thirds of the way down his drink, and clearly enjoying the effects of his unorthodox painkiller combination.

“You scared too, Angel?” He sounded gleefully belligerent, like a small boy challenging a bully to fight. Angel glanced at Gunn, who was fighting hard to contain his laughter. Wesley frowned and wagged his finger theatrically. “Shh! She’ll hear you!” Then winced as the movement aggravated the pain in his shoulder. “Ow! Bloody hell that hurts!”

“Good.” Her voice was ice. Actual permafrost. She strode into the room and made her way to the desk, pausing briefly to smack both Gunn and Angel on the head, before punching Wesley on his uninjured shoulder. 

“Ow! That’s not fair. You can’t hit me, I’m hurt!” The petulant seven year old was back with a vengeance.

“You idiot!” Cordelia went for the whiskey, and it was a testament to how intoxicated Wesley was that he actually snatched the cup away from her. 

“S’mine!” he whined, and somehow managed to drain the dregs of the whiskey before Cordelia was able to confiscate the empty cup.

‘Did you honestly think we wouldn’t find out?” She was no longer arctic now, the frost quite unexpectedly replaced by fire. Wesley blinked in confusion, as if she was a prophecy he couldn’t quite get to grips with.

“Huh?” Gunn was also having trouble following the conversational U-turns.

Cordelia eyed them with barely concealed exasperation, then jabbed at a button on the answering machine.

“Hello? Wesley?” A very cultured Home Counties accent rang out clearly from the machine. “I’ve been trying your flat all evening.” Then in a more muffled voice, as if someone had covered the mouthpiece. “Roger, how many hours ahead are we?” The response could not be made out. “You must be out on a – “ there was a brief pause, “- case. I just wanted to ring and wish you a happy birthday, darling.” 

There was a muffled thud, as Wesley’s head met the desk.

“I know you don’t like a fuss, dear, but it is your birthday. I remember this day thirty three years ago…” The voice grew wistful, then another muffled aside: “No, dear, I’m not sure what the international charges are during the afternoon…” The voice returned to normal volume. “Just your father wanting to send his regards. Wesley, you will remember about his birthday, won’t you? It’s the third… Well, I’ll try your home number again later. Happy birthday again, darling.”

The message end tone beeped, and an uncomfortable silence settled about the room. It didn’t last long. 

“How could you?” Cordelia rounded on him, her hands on her hips, looming over the desk. “How could you not tell us it’s your birthday?”

Wesley rallied slightly, drew himself up in his seat; then winced at the pain that lanced through his shoulder as he straightened it. “It’s really none of your business.”

“Oh, please. Don’t even start with the ‘Marlene Dietrich’ routine. We’re your friends, Wes. I think that counts for something in the ‘it’s totally our business’ stakes.” She looked over at the others for support.

Gunn shrugged diffidently. “Gotta respect a man’s privacy, but she’s not wrong, Wes.”

Wesley’s scowl settled deeper into the lines on his forehead, but he did not answer. Angel looked at him thoughtfully, but made no comment. Cordelia wasn’t finished though.

“Is it the age thing? ‘Cos, thirty three, geriatric as it is, is nothing compared to the 250 year old walking corpse over there.” 

“247 years old, thank you very much.” Angel’s frown matched Wesley’s in intensity. 

Cordelia snorted in derision. “Like it matters. You probably don’t even remember what century you were born in.” She held up her palm as Angel opened his mouth to protest. “Point is, guys, Wes should have told us. Cos, we’re his friends, y’know?” There wasn’t really any arguing with that point.

But Wesley was going to have a go. “I know it’s hard to believe, Cordelia, but I really wasn’t thinking about you or your hurt feelings when I decided not to celebrate my birthday. I haven’t bothered about it for a few years now.”

Cordelia leaned back against the desk. “Oh. That’s just… so very sad, Wesley. In every sense of the word.”

Wesley leaned forward suddenly, pressing the heel of his palm to his shoulder. “This is why I don’t celebrate my birthday,” he hissed in controlled anger. “And it’s your fault! If you hadn’t found out, I would have been fine.” 

Cordelia eyed him anxiously, clearly fearing for his sanity. “Said with the logic of the insanely drunk. I didn’t find out till just now, Wes. And that,” she gestured to his wound, “happened a couple of hours ago.”

Wesley deflated visibly. “Oh. Right. Sorry, then.” He folded his hands in front of him and studied his fingers intently.

“You’re not serious?” Cordelia flopped into a chair and gave the whiskey bottle a wary glance. “You honestly think your birthday’s jinxed?” 

Wesley rubbed his hand over temple, then reached over and lifted the teacup. “I need a drink.” 

Cordelia snatched the cup out of his reach. “You know, when my friends start measuring their alcohol by the cupful, I think I should start worrying. You’ve had more than enough. You’re clearly delusional.”

“Now, Cordelia…” Angel felt it was time to intercede on Wesley’s behalf. But already Wesley was drawing himself up in indignation.

“Delusional.” He nodded calmly, but his tone matched her earlier iciness. The repressed anger in his voice sharpened his consonants, making him sound even more impressively British than usual. He leaned forward a little.

“My ninth birthday, now there was a day to remember. My father used to set me twenty Latin verbs to learn and decline each week. He’d test me on a Friday afternoon. My ninth birthday happened to fall on a Friday, and I was so excited at the prospect that I forgot to study for the test. I didn’t get a single one right.” 

There was a collective wince from his audience. “Yes, it wasn’t a particularly pleasant afternoon. I have some rather painful memories of that day. Or perhaps you’d like to hear about my tenth birthday. I wanted a Robin Hood archery set, and instead received a selection of texts on medieval weaponry.” He paused and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“And then we come to my eleventh birthday, when I fell during fencing practice with my father and broke my collarbone. Or perhaps you’d like to hear about my fourteenth birthday, when my appendix burst. In the middle of double Latin. That was fun.”

“Wes, man,” Gunn shook his head slightly. 

“Oh, but I’m just getting to the good part.” Wesley didn’t seem to be able to stop. “How about the fact that the arrival of my school report almost always coincided with my birthday. Yes, that used to put quite a damper on the festivities.”

Cordelia frowned in puzzlement. "But weren't you, like, an A student or something?"

Wesley laughed, but there was no humour in it. “My father was something of a perfectionist. And I’m afraid I needed a good deal of perfecting. It seems he was right; I was rather dull-witted. It took me quite a few years to work out that my birthday was cursed. Oh, not in the grand apocalyptic sense. No, I wasn’t nearly important enough for that.” He waved his hand airily and almost knocked the Laphroag off the desk. “No, clearly my birthday afforded the gods some sort of “It’s a Knockout” type entertainment.” 

The allusion was lost on them. Wesley sighed. “Let’s just say, after a few more years of falling down steps, twisting ankles, accidentally locking myself in rat infested wine cellars, and such like, I decided to stop celebrating my birthday. And it was bloody well working. Up till today.”

The atmosphere in the office was now one of discomfited pity. Wesley shook his head, took a deep breath and eyed the Laphroag with an almost paternal fondness. “And now I think I would like to drink myself into oblivion.” 

There was no argument from Cordelia this time. She set the tea cup down and unscrewed the whiskey bottle, then half-filled the tea cup and gave his arm an awkward but comforting pat. “Happy birthday, Wes.” 

Gunn got to his feet, swaying a little from his own consumption. “So, you want pizza or Kung Pao chicken?” 

Wesley sighed softly. “Fish and chips. I really want proper fish and chips.” 

Cordelia nodded. “We can do that.” She lifted her jacket from the chair. “I’m driving. Gunn, you’re ordering. Angel, you’re paying.” 

Angel slid his hand into the pocket of his duster and removed his wallet. He was about to open it when Cordelia plucked it deftly from his fingers. “Thank you, that’ll do fine.” She leaned closer to his ear. “Don’t let him drink too much.” 

“I know.” 

Cordelia pulled Gunn out of the office, and led the way to the car.

Angel lifted a book off the table and flicked the pages idly. Then stood up and paced to the office door. And back again. He lifted the bottle of whiskey and studied it as if the answer to life, the universe and everything sloshed therein.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Angel! “ Wesley gave a heartfelt groan. “Whatever it is that’s on your mind, just say it. I have neither the inclination nor the patience to watch you brood for the next hour.”

“It’s my fault.” Angel set the bottle down abruptly, and folded his arms over his chest. Then unfolded them again. 

“Angel, I’m tired. I hurt. I’ve had too many painkillers and not nearly enough alcohol. What the hell are you talking about?”

Angel turned purposefully and strode into the outer office, then returned moment later with a large package, tastefully wrapped in dark red paper. He placed it on the desk.

“This. It’s my fault you got hurt. I knew it was your birthday. I got you this. I was going to surprise you later.” He looked at the gift glumly. “I didn’t know about the curse.”

“Oh.” Wesley blinked. Then removed his glasses and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “This… is… for me?” He sounded stunned.

“I thought you’d like… I mean I saw this and I thought… what with the whole new clothes thing with Cordy and all…”

“You bought me a birthday present?” Wesley’s voice was now a soft bewildered whisper, and he reached out to touch the paper.

“Open it.” Angel pushed the package towards Wesley. “Go on.”

Wesley unwrapped the parcel carefully, as if he expected the present to disappear at any moment. Then stared at the contents in wonder, allergies threatening to overwhelm him.

“How did you know?” He looked at Angel as if dazed.

“It’s only a replica, you know. But it’s made to authentic medieval specifications.” Angel smiled sadly. “Not quite the full archery set, but I think Robin might have used something similar.”

“It’s… perfect.” Wesley lifted the crossbow reverently, and turned it over in his hands. “This is just… the best present. Ever.” He nodded decisively, then looked up at Angel. “How did you know it was my birthday?”

Angel gave an unconvincingly nonchalant shrug. “I saw it written on some paperwork.”

Wesley chewed his bottom lip absently. “Where was that? I don’t think I have my date of birth on file here.”

“It might have been on a medical chart.” Angel began to smooth out the wrapping paper, appearing to find the activity incredibly absorbing.

“Oh.” Wesley frowned. “At the hospital?” 

“Maybe.” It was quite possible that Angel was blushing. 

“You came to the hospital?” Angel nodded mutely. “Could you narrow it down to a particular month; only I do seem to have spent quite a bit of time in the place?”

Angel raised his eyes reluctantly, as if in pain. “I was there when the police report came in, Wes. I had to see you, had to know you were going to be okay.”

“Oh. When I was shot.” Wesley paused. “I didn’t see you.”

“Cordelia kicked me out.” Angel smiled ruefully at the memory. “I came back later, when she and Gunn went for coffee. Just to check on you. Saw your date of birth on the chart.”

“Angels watching round my bed…” Wesley whispered almost to himself. 

Angel moved closer, laid his hand on Wesley’s arm very gently. “Wes, I…”

“Keys!” Cordelia barged into the office, waving her hand in Angel’s face. “I am so not riding in Gunn’s truck. There are entrails!” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “Angel, car keys?”

“What? Um, right… keys.” Angel extracted his keys and handed them over, keeping his eyes fixed on Wesley. Cordelia snatched at them before he could change his mind, and ran out of the office.

“Angel?” Wesley’s voice held a note of questioning now. 

“Yes, Wesley?” Angel was still staring into Wesley’s eyes, his fingers curling around his forearm.

“You do realize you just gave Cordelia your car keys?”

“I did?” He sounded as if he was still in a daze. “My keys?!” The gravity of the situation appeared to finally register with him. “She’s driving my car?” He almost leapt backwards. “Come on, we’ve got to stop them. I’ll never get the fish and chip smell out of the leather.”

The moment was gone. Angel was already pulling on his duster and half running out the door. Wesley huffed a small sigh. 

“Bloody birthday curse strikes again,” he muttered under his breath, and followed Angel out of the office.


End file.
